The Tunnelıng cyclıst

There had now been nearly a week of relatively normal cycling with a slow return to colonised purple dots, no mine fields and most of all, no rain. Of course this was a world tour and this time of pleasing normality could not last. Its demise was at first but a dark shadow over my calm being. The shadow became darker until it was quite literally pitch black.

There would be 2 days of unparalleled tunneling to which I shall be making enquiries to the guinness world records library for most tunnels traveled through in 24 hours by a touring cyclist.


The ride into Serbia goes like this:

2 lane tunnels, with some form of lighting

Single lane tunnels with traffic lights timed for cars.

Single lane tunnels with traffic lights and no illumination! Partial panic sets in as traffic lights change and one hears on coming traffic, sounding like a combination of a jet engine and a train putting its breaks on.

Single lane tunnel no traffic lights, no lights, gravel and potholes.

As above but over 1000 metres long.

Then I renamed these ferocious holes to caves when the stuff under my wheels was made of the same stuff as the ceiling, bare rock!

After being immersed in pitch black for more than 10 minutes with no road it is a kin to being in a small plane, blind folded whilst in turbulence. All sense of direction is lost. I would exist thinking I was going up hill when I was going down hill and vice-versa, Sweat turns cold from the tunnels darkness and eyes are blinded from the light of the day. Having no knowledge of how long one is to be submerged proved quite daunting, By the second day other bodily bits began helping my poor eyes. It was a team effort..... depending on chillyness of my knees when they hit the cold tunnel air and the nature of my “wooping” echos I could guess a tunnels length to within a few hundred meters..

The ultimate irony of these 2 days of petrifying pot holing is that it was the first time in over 2 weeks that blue had appeared in the sky. I spent the entire day underground!

The guiness book of records entry reads:

“Most tunnels passed through for solo world cyclist --------- 60 !”

A rare Glımpse at External Beauty

On the second day I emerged from the final tunnel and entered my first Serbian town at the same time redressing the balance between cyclist and lorry by victoriously overtaking one on a glorious downhill swoosh whilst in my attempt at a racing tuck, peddling furiously using the haloed and still sparkling top gear. YES!

The affluence of the people continued to grow the further into Serbia I traveled. With a decline in visible war scars a lighter breeze wafted through villages piled high with fresh fruit and self supporting carrots. My mood lightened contrary to the size of belly. Cycling had once again become more predictable, including another monstrous climb into Bulgaria. This time I had my first encounter with maddening swarms of mosquitos. Unlike the bees of western Europe they can be outrun and so began the hottest most tiring, infuriating border climb to date. At a little under 9mph the first wave would attack. My shoulders would be hounded and sucked, nose and eyes buzzed. I flounder for words in describing the difficulties of trying to keep Condors wheels turning at speed up a hill for over 2 hours in hot sunshine. Suffice to say it was Hell. A mosquito netted hat has been bumped to the top of the Istanbul shopping list as I can no longer prepare evening meals outside of the tent without receiving multiple suckings and red bulges.

Mosquıto comedy

With red lumps and bite marks I crossed the border to a very cold Bulgarian reception. For the first time there were no smiles. I temper my opinion of Bulgaria as the channel I have furrowed is obviously very small. To summarise the Bulgarian attitude towards a solo cyclist a hotel receptionists attempted to levy a charge for parking my bicycle, in addition to the cost of the room. It became a tıme of ıntropspectıon amd self concıous attempts at tryıng to raıse a smıle as I bought supplıes

For reasons that slip my mind upon writing this I chanced across the Romanian border. A quick consultation with my postcard sized map of Europe showed it was flat with a most inviting green colour nudging against the browns of Bulgaria........

After a 4 hour wait for the ferry due to ınsuffıcıent counts of lorrıes to justify a crossing, our flabby Speedo trunked captain steered us across the Watery divide and aparently past the frontier into Russia.

I meandered along the North bank of a river that ran East, grinning at the hills across the river in Bulgaria. I am sure there was a frıendly force at play as clouds hung there gloom over Bulgaria but showed mercy at the river and never crossed the divide.

Romania had been like a a street 200 miles long full of beaming smiles. Every house was decked with a bench facing the road upon which there would almost always be a parked bottom and cheery wave. I could not help but nod and Beam back. After only one afternoon the Bulgarian slump had been lifted.

Often whole families would be tending their cow(s). Other tımes I would pass father and daughter sitting under a tree with only a goat to dıstract them from ıdle summer chats. Romania is a very poor country but has a life to it much greater than what I had seen only 50 miles behind me.

After over 2000 miles of cycling I was now practically the fastest thing on the road which after spending nearly 2 months huggıng the edge of the road took a lıttle gettıng used to. The day would pass overtaking carts laden with family members out for a Sunday ride (trot ?) or woman sat a top huge piles of hay whilst husband wrestles wıth the reluctant steed (and possıbly hıs ego too) to gallop as he sees my approach. Young boy racers riding bare back impressively impressing the girls and me for that matter, would chat on mobile phones whilst effortlessly steering a course around my cumbersome frame.

The whole affair was a pleasure. I was happy. Water was literally available on tap or should I say by the bucket load. Road side wells served up ice cold water quenching a 30 degree thirst and sweaty brow. At fırst I maıntaıned an Englısh reserve for fear of offendıng the Well owner (ıf there was one) but ınsıstant encouragement from frıendly faces has me gluggıng buckets of cool well water in preparation for the daily races against children, in charge of any road worthy (or not) transport be it wheeled or as was mainly the case, hooved. Upto now they have always won a temporary vıctory (its the weight you know) to a cheer from me and the street lined park benchers. Dodging potholes We swerve to each others side, nod our farewells and off they would trundle back to the well to cool.

It is in Romania that the remnants of the European downpour were most visible. Many huts had been swept and collected into corners of the land with houshold possesions strangely dotting the landscape or dangling from trees and telegraph poles. At times the road had been completely submerge as I threaded a fine line between vast flood plains, a mirror as far as the eye could see.

It was saddening to leave Romania, the sadness greatened by a return to the glumness of Bulgaria. I had my heart set on Istanbul. The days riding grew more difficult as my excitement grew at the prospect of seeing friends and resting after nearly a 1000 miles of non stop cycling.

My mind was tired from over exposure as were my legs!. The final, familiar and mosquito ridden climb into Turkey was measured in days as appose to hours, 3 of them ! 3 whole days of up hilling ending with the biggest, largest moustached smiling passport control officer to date who first called me crazy realising I had peddled UP to his border and then with something that I shall never forget in the adrenalin fueled haze that I was in said these words partly ınferıng to turkey and half for the glorıous downhıll that approached...........

”paradise awaits you “

I was now giddy with excitment, My recently and quite seriously Iodine stained passport had been legible enough for 5 passport checks and the gates to paradise were opened. They revealed Beautiful panoramic views over Turkey and glorious flat cycling .

I sat in the first village to rest and repeatedly reminded myself I had cycled from London to Turkey. A reverberating cough filled the air and startled me out of this marvelous and well deserved day dreaming moment. I puzzled over the reality of what I thought I had just heard. Again an echoing cough this time with additional reverberation; then the full exotic reverberating charm of a call to prayer filled the air. The voice filled me with magic. An incredibly appropriate welcome to the world East of Europe.

I had made the mistake of allowing my mind to wander to Instanbul before my legs had transported me there. It was an arduous 4 days cycling full of an expectancy and anticipation that stretched each mile to double its normal length. I write theses last lines sat on my bed on a sun baked roof top terrace overlooking Istanbull and the Domes of its huge Mosques thinking again and again how lucky I am, how exciting it shall be to sit with friends and how after a whole month of non stop cycling I can now stop.




The Quoted Cyclist:


I Have begun listening to lectures and short storiers on my music player. The first lecture has been on Human Longetivity.... with finishing quote to the lecture........

“You know you are getting old (or are a touring cyclist) when you bend down to tie your shoe laces and wonder if there is anything else useful you could be doing whilst you are down here”.

I am but a very young man alas my knees have taken to this saying with unprompted zeal.

Bulgarıa...........

A new chaır and a fırst nıght of 5 star campıng

Romanıan road sıde Canabıs. A hundred mıles of dosey cows and sneezıng.

The overseers of nearly every Romanıan vıllage

The blackness of Bulgarıa